It's a balmy March midafternoon in the red-hot center of South Florida's raffish, tourist-trap debauchery -- South Beach. Washington Avenue, to be precise. Club Madonna, to be even more so. Of course, the hallowed lust emporium is closed now, in the middle of the day. The mirrored walls reflect nothing but dim lights, empty stages, and polished silver poles, recovering from the sweat and press of last night's squad of nubile young women dancers. Not a bellybutton in sight. At this too-godly hour, one would have to walk due east, down to Ocean Drive and trudge the sand to see topless teases, dry-roasting themselves for the leathery goddess of narcissism under... More >>>